


The Flame Siren

by SwordofRebecca



Category: Suikoden II, Suikogaiden II
Genre: Abusive Relationship, M/M, Tarot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2020-02-27
Packaged: 2021-02-22 13:24:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22916854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SwordofRebecca/pseuds/SwordofRebecca
Summary: The condensed version of the relationship between Camus and Clant. Semi stream of consciousness. Hope for redemption.
Relationships: Camus/Clant (Suikoden), Camus/Miklotov
Kudos: 1





	The Flame Siren

**Author's Note:**

> This is basically a super condensed version of "Steel Forged in Fire" and hope for redemption. Involves tarot cards because I love them and they've proven helpful for this fic and others. Oh, and spot the references, as usual.

He had beautiful hands. Camus could never forget. The hands that were warm, the hands that were surprisingly strong, the hands that waved around the flames they produced.

Clant danced in flames, he spun in flames, flames as red as his hair. Fire belonged to him, and only him. Camus could never forget. Those beautiful hands grasped fire the way one grasped at a rope: known when to hold on, when to give slack, and when to let go entirely. Yet it did not seem to apply to Camus.

He had beautiful hands. Hands that felt good against Camus. Hands that were surprisingly soft despite the use of a sword. Hands that were well taken care of, along with the rest of Clant's slender body.

He had beautiful eyes. Camus could never forget. Eyes that were blue like a distant storm, a rare sight for hair made of flame. They were piercing, but they were lovely. Yes, this is how Camus talked to a man. Those eyes looked upon Camus with love, with amusement, with desire, with joy. They were beautiful, the only word Camus could say. Clant frequently wore masks, some simple, some decorative, all beautiful and that interesting. When asked why he had them, he claimed that they revealed as much as they concealed.

He had a gorgeous face that straddled the feminine and the masculine. At least that's what Camus believed. Then again, so did a lot of people, but only Camus got to see his face up close and personal. He got to feel Clant's breath against him, he got to feel the lips that were surprisingly awkward and naive, but they felt wonderful. They learned together and that was beautiful.

His voice sailed over the tower balcony to the sky, to the city, to the earth. A high baritone voice that commanded the attention of all who heard. A beautiful voice whether he sang or spoke. Spoken was a tenor, and fast and strongly accented and Camus would smile inwardly or outwardly every time he heard it. Clant sang to the dawn and Camus would hear. He sang to the afternoon and many would hear. He sang to the stars and it didn't matter who heard, but Camus always did. He heard and loved, but he got to hear the soft purrs, the gentle whisper, the naiveté so notorious among the "best of the best" White Knights of Matilda. 

Whenever Clant walked away, Camus heard his song, heard his boots against the stone, smelt the cinnamon clove Clant always seemed to emanate. From the very beginning, Clant was on his mind.

Once upon a time, Camus knew him only as "The Flame Siren" and now he knew why. The designs were always on his heart, dressed in black and white or white and black, but Camus would learn that Clant was the man of a thousand clothes and yet for his feet he wore only boots. Camus didn't mind; he was little different. Neither were many of the other knights.

The Flame Siren. Flame, dear flame. Camus would think of the dear flame and that the strongest blade belonged to Clant, the swiftest sword belonged to Clant, the dancing singing speaking flames belonged to Clant. Camus never had to wonder if it was all a dream. Neither knights were dreamers. Designs were on their hearts. Designs made of flame, dear flame.

Wind carries fire and fuels it as evidenced by Clant's flame hair when he voice sails to the Matilda skies, when he spars with anyone who dares, when he spins in a dance, when he is playing music whether he sings or not. Fire follows him. Camus could never hope to match and he wasn't even sure if he wanted to. All he could do was gazed amazed at the Flame Siren. Flame, dear flame.

The King of Wands. The tarot diviners named Clant thus. The King of Wands to Camus' Temperance. Perfect sense. Some called Clant "the ace of everything" and that made sense too. Swords for his skill, cups for his taste in ale, pentacles for the money he gripped in his beautiful hands, and, of course, wands for his bonfire personality. Camus basked in all of it. How could he not? Fire burned in its own right within Camus. Both men ignored the rumors, both men held the reigns of their lives, both men swore that their fires would burn the brightest of everyone and for quite awhile, they did.

They were all night and all knights. Never a dream, always reality and Camus thanked everything possible for being that one. The one Flame Siren would look upon with warmth, his storms little more than a fair sky, his voice a balm for everything that ailed Camus.

Ten of Cups. It did not get much better than this and in bed, they were the Tower, but in a good way, excellent way. They learned from each other and it was beautiful. They held each other close and that too was beautiful. They danced to the sound of everything. They singed together, their voices mingling the same way their bodies did. They spoke of everything, of joy, of sorrow, of rage, of lives and deaths and suns and moons and stars and runes. Both held fire and both men assumed that they would unite with Explosion. Why not? Camus wondered. They certainly did enough of that in bed or walking arm in arm all over Rockaxe. One day, they both decided. One day, their fires would combine one way or the other.

Flame, dear flame. The King of Wands reversed. Clant had beautiful hands. Camus would never forget. The same hands that offered gentle warm were the same hands that grabbed him and slammed him against a wall for the horrible crime of flirting. That voice. Clant had a beautiful voice with a beautiful accent that screamed with a terrifying tone. Irritable. Fire that burns that didn't cease to be until Camus found himself sliding down the bricks in shock. Sometimes, he found himself crying. Clant's eyes. He had beautiful eyes like the distant promise of a storm. Those very same eyes would immobilize Camus with a ferocious glare for the crime of trying to tell Clant how a knight should behave. His gorgeous face every bit as fierce.

Flame, dear flame. The same fires that provided warmth were the same fires that provided pain. Camus would never forget. He saw remorse in those stormy eyes. He saw attempts at being better at controlling the chaos within, but the flames remained. Camus could never forget. When Clant needed the certainty of a blood oath, Camus refused and there was the promise of a firestorm ever since.

Then came Miklotov of the wind and water. They were close long before Camus approached the flames, but they were not the same. Miklotov did not have those hands, but they were every bit as strong and gentle, if not more-so. He did not have Clant's finesse, but he never needed it. Miklotov did not have that voice, but his accent proved just as lovely, only different. His voice warned that Clant could be the "death of you." He did not sing much, but when he did, his voice didn't have to sail through the air from a tower or anywhere else. He played no music; he didn't need or want to.

Miklotov was not the man of a thousand clothes, but he still had style, a pragmatic style that Camus always appreciated. Dressed in blue, black and white. Miklotov did not have Clant's eyes for his were dark, but every bit as piercing. No one could accuse him of being gorgeous, but he had a masculine something. His hair never sailed into the wind with a flame halo for his hair was short and black as shadows. He was the wind who carried the flame, but the flame was Camus.

The Knight of Swords, fierce in his own right, but his passion spun around the wind tempered with water. Strength: a gentle amount of force. While he had problems of his own, while he too tended to shout, he never once left Camus a shaking mess on the stone floor. He never once even terrified Camus. He never once left bruises on Camus' arms or chin.

He was no flame, dear flame, but he was the wind that whistled against the rocks, the trees, the water. Camus thought that he would be a shadow compared to Clant, but he was wrong. Miklotov was all light. The Star. The ray of hope in the fires of darkness. Friend, dear friend. From the very beginning and at the end of the line they united in their own way, leaving the wildfire far behind. Or so they wanted to believe.

Miklotov was never a siren of any sort, but he saw no need or desire. Runes were never fully in his grasp, but his sword was all the magic he needed, his will was all the magic he needed, and his courage was all the magic he needed. Human first, knight second. Then again, so was Clant, but fire surrounded him while Miklotov bathed in wind and his hair was never a halo. He wore no masks and never understood why anyone did.

Wind, dear wind, let Camus caress him, allowed kisses, embraces and together, they built their own towers in their bedrooms. On their own, the Flame Siren could destroy them both. Together, they could defeat him and at the end of the line, they did.

But, neither one of them could kill him. The Wheel of Fortune spun in a small village after the war. It spun for everyone, even Clant. The Flame Siren lost all his allies, but Camus could not bring himself to take his life. Miklotov couldn't either. No one could. The flame decorated mask, however, did come off and Clant remained a gorgeous flame, dear flame. He looked peaceful, for once.

Flame, dear flame. Camus will be speaking to him soon. When the quiet storm once again appears in his eyes, he will ask him questions, many questions. The ashes of Clant's friends and subordinates have been scattered to the wind, along with his well crafted fire swept tunic. Camus knows that the Flame Siren will find out. He knows that his fire storm ex love will be devastated but flame, dear flame brought it all on himself through the bandit's risk that finally failed to pay off.

Temperance. Camus will be needing it more than ever now. Miklotov often looks to him for guidance and now is the day that he will do so. King of Cups. Mindfulness. Equilibrium. Camus will need those too, but he knows that he will be flooded with tears because no matter what happened, no matter the past, no matter who he is with now or in the future, he still loved the Flame Siren and did not want him to die. But, he will not forget. He will forgive, but he knows better than to forget. Clant will repent for what he has done as a lover, as White Knight Captain, and as a bandit. No one doubts this.

/Flame, dear Flame. Do you even realize how close to death you were? On our own, I cannot defeat you. Miklotov cannot defeat you. But, together, we can, we have, and if we must do it again, we will. I had my sword over your heart, but I could not do it. Miklotov could not do it and we did not allow anyone else to even try. Now, it's just a waiting game. Why did you do this? You who were the ace of everything, the King of Wands, The Flame Siren, a man of gifts, a man who could have been a true hero were you not so filled with rage. Do you even realize how close I was to never hearing your voice again? Never seeing your expressive face? Never seeing your hair that the wind carried like actual fire? Never seeing your beautiful hands? Your gorgeous face? Do you even realize how close you were to an extinguished future? Will you ever realize it? I will see to it that you will/.

/Despite everything, I still love you.../.


End file.
